


And The Gentleness That Comes

by bodysnatch3r



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodysnatch3r/pseuds/bodysnatch3r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">"Findekáno."</span>
  <br/><span class="small">The word spreads wings like a prayer to meet the sunlight that traces her fingers along Maedhros' back and Fingon, like the jealous lover he is, runs his fingertips along his spine, chases away the light's greedy kisses. The tingle in Maedhros' skin clenches his heart in his chest and he hums against his lover's neck, melindo, lover, a word that is all delicate curves and full vocals that climb to the peak of the small of their back and there rest before sloping down into soundless screams, into hands grasping for purchase, bodies moving together in perfect, simple harmony. The vibrations of Maedhros' lips against Fingon's skin make his chest swell, eternal as the soul that burns within.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Gentleness That Comes


    We have not touched the stars,  
    nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
    to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
    not from the absence of violence, but despite  
    the abundance of it.

Richard Siken,  **Snow And Dirty Rain**

There is laughter, that morning. A chiming soaring birdsong that bounces across the marble walls, the glittering stairways, a serpentine stream of unexpected joy. Sun cascades in and kisses the tapestries, the laughter chasing after the feet of a slight summer breeze.

"Maitimo," the voice whispers against its owner's hand that tries to muffle another bout of giggles,  _Maitimo_ , like a song, like a perfect progression of notes, like the sigh when Maitimo's lips connect once more with quiet breath to Findecáno's neck.

_Maitimo_ , that tastes of sweet honey and the crackling red fire of his blood, and Fingon slightly dips his head back, dark hair an oasis of shadow in the white desert of Maedhros' bedsheets, pulse quickening at the heavy weightlessness of Maitimo's body hovering over his. He knots his harpist's fingers into the red waves, terracotta skin tracing freckles endless droplets of flame along white, knotted together they are mother of pearl set in bronze.

"Findekáno."

The word spreads wings like a prayer to meet the sunlight that traces her fingers along Maedhros' back and Fingon, like the jealous lover he is, runs his fingertips along his spine, chases away the light's greedy kisses. The tingle in Maedhros' skin clenches his heart in his chest and he hums against his lover's neck,  _melindo_ , lover, a word that is all delicate curves and full vocals that climb to the peak of the small of their back and there rest before sloping down into soundless screams, into hands grasping for purchase, bodies moving together in perfect, simple harmony. The vibrations of Maedhros' lips against Fingon's skin make his chest swell, eternal as the soul that burns within.

The kiss they share is a dance of breathing, of chests slowly rising and falling and lips tasting - need crawls along their fingers, forehead against forehead, Fingon's legs wrapped around Maedhros' hips, red hair a cascade around them, meeting dark woven with gold.

Fingon whispers his name again, and it is a symphony. 

* * *

The hand against his cheek is cool, as is the kiss, chaste, quick, against his lips- Maedhros smiles.

His eyes burn wild in the light of the torches, adrenaline their only master, Fingon drinks from them as if they were fresh water poured down his parched throat, despite himself, despite the fire that is to be kindled, the fire that is to crack the porcelain and fabric of the world they know and turn it into something new.

Not better. Just new.

Maedhros looks like the prince he was born to be, he looks like a king, flames within ready to burn the world to a cinder.

His father has just shaped the days to come with sharp words and powerful screams and rage, rage,  _rage_ , rage yelled at the top of his lungs, swords unsheathed, blades raised, hair billowing, Maitimo before them all, close in his Father's shadow, red hair a beauty to be marvelled upon, similar to blood flowing down his shoulders, down his neck.

"Your father spoke well," Fingon whispers, eyes rimmed with gold, Maedhros' own rimmed with thick black and Maedhros' grin widens. He juts his chin out, proud and blind at the same time, the jewellery adorning his ears and fingers and arms reflecting the light. He is savage, through and through, and beautiful. He grabs Findekáno's face between his hands, and the kiss is sweet mead, impulse with no afterthought brought forth by foolish recklessness, sweat, the rusty taste of fear and war and wounds neither of them know of yet but will soon grip tight, wield as weapon, mark as own.

Maitimo cherishes the kiss as it thunders through his soul, louder than any oath, louder than any fire. Fingon feels himself lost within the taste, the feeling of skin, the beauty.

_I will write songs of you my love_. _  
_

"To the end?" Maedhros asks then. There is no child's foolishness in the smile he gives Fingon- only devotion. It is terrible, on a face as royal, as sharp as his. 

Fingon is scared at these words that hold so much power-  _To the end_ , but you are beings of light, hybrids of gods and the earth, you harbour within yourselves the shine of stars. Look at him, his eyes ablaze. Look at yourself, look at your hands, your fighter's hands, your poet's hands, look at the night and the sky and the shining beauty all around you, look at the words that have just been spoken, look at the way history will make itself, look at your fear, look at his boiling blood, look at the lips you wish you could kiss and kiss and kiss, forever.

_To the end_?

Look at eternity as it unfolds and cuts itself short with its very own breathing.

"To the end," Fingon whispers back, Maedhros' eyes already dark with war.

* * *

 

"No, no,  _melindo-ninya_ , no, _please_ \- look at me."

It is cold, on mountaintop. It is unforgiving. It is rock and it is terror.

Fingon's touch is searing pain and agonising beauty that consumes the very flesh it brushes against, it feels like he is an inch from death, Maedhros feels fragile, waxing waning growing thin- he is a ghost.

His head falls back, hair shorn, and the nape of his neck meets rock. It leaves a taste in his mouth not unlike death.

He asks it again.

Findekáno clenches his teeth and fists what is left of the blood-red, sun-red, lust-red hair and pulls his lover's head forwards- their foreheads touch. It is a spear torn through Maedhros' side, it is a crown of thorns. 

"I am not letting you go."

Maedhros' free hand delicately wills itself to move, although it is lead, although its nails are missing and it is stained with blood, his own, fresh red and dull brown mixing together. He brushes fingertips against Fingon's cheek, whose dark hair is a raven's wing in the savage, ice cold wind, entwined with ever-present gold. He is beautiful, still, despite eyes being deeper, lonelier, sadder, despite the intricacy of his mourning braids ( _for the kin we have slain, for those fallen to the ice._

_For you_ , unsaid but lingering),

despite the tremor in his voice, the strain of clinging to Thangorodrim's clutches.

"Oh but you should, you should,  _telepóma_ , I ask of you only this."

"No. I beg of you."

Maedhros stares at him and Fingon wishes he could scream:  _silver voice_ , a name only one had ever spoken- only that it had been with laughter always dancing inside eyes, with red hair in waves, strong hands, quick kisses. Now the letters snarled are a desperate plea and a desolate, tired smile.

_Let me go_. 

" _Findekáno_ -"

But Findekáno holds his forehead in place against his, head clutching the back of his neck, he holds him tight, swallows down tears past the knot and the empty and the dryness in his throat, past the shaking. Past the horror of what he is about to do.

"I'm doing this because I love you," he whispers and wonders how much longer he will hold back the tears. _  
_

They come when Maedhros screams in pain. They come when he cuts the hand free.

They come, and he buries his face in Maitimo's bony, convulsing shoulder.

* * *

 

There is chaos after war in the sense that there is emptiness, nothingness, calm and the smell of rotting cadavers and blood and soot and ash. There is madness after war in the sense that there is cold, and it slips under furs and armour and chain mail and heavy garments and it ices your bones, bites through to the marrow.

There is rage after war in the sense that there is a warrior, there is a prince, there is a lord and he is standing on the edge of the battlefield and he is staring at the slain before him, and he has not moved ever since he got there. 

There is a bloodied banner at his feet, and it is white, and it is blue.

Maedhros the Tall does not move- he does not deem it fit to move. After all, grief is jagged when placed on the face of a perfect creature- grief deforms, grief cuts, grief transforms beauty into sorrow and grief does not sit well on the face of a prince of the Noldor.

But Maedhros knows that grief will find its way out. Grief always found him, one way or another. Grief always won. 

The emptiness is a mace and the mace hits his chest, the mace hits his lungs- the porcelain of his innards, delicate confinement for his storm of a soul, is shattering. There is no silver light to bring them back to grace. There is no road home between shoulder blades, no eyes rimmed with gold or turquoise or red, no dark hair to lose oneself within, no gold strands, no voice to elevate his kinslayer's guilt to the stars.

There is nothing. There is a carcass, yes, an empty shell with blood-matted clothes and torn skin.

Harp strings are snapped, sword is snapped, back was broken, bones were shattered.

Maitimo stands at the edge of a barren battlefield and does not know if he exists. There is no pain, there is no way the emptiness within could ever be defined as only pain: it is a complex jewel of cold ash and ice fire, strong, poured down his throat, arms pinned to his side, the whip lashing at his flesh, the knife cutting his hand, the light waning, the blood dripping, the nightmares plaguing his body. The cool touch of a lover's hand, the slight sigh, the whispers of comfort now drowned away, words gone, confessions burned, and there was so much time and so little time and nothing,  _nothing at all_.

Maitimo stands at the edge of a bloody battlefield, and throws back his head, and

( _grief does not suit a prince of the Noldor_ )

wails to the sky, a single desolate note that echoes through his chest, a dying man's lament that will receive no answer.

( _To the end_?

_To the end_.)

 


End file.
